Stars
by Y0URIMAGINARYFRIEND
Summary: Her tears look like crystal, like stars Insanity, non-con. Kind of sick. M rated for adult themes. HinataX?


I'm not sure what inspired this. All I know is that my muse came back at some unholy hour of the night, and demanded that I write this strange, disturbing drabble.

You won't understand it unless I set it in context, so here's a vague outline of the situation for you to hang these mad ramblings on - not that you're obliged to, you're welcome to interpret it however you like. But anyway...

It's from an Akatsuki's point of view, a rather psychotic and deranged one, with Hinata as a captive. It could fit into cannon in theory, but it's more just an exploration of a view of Hinata.

Also WARNING: Contains non-con, insanity, and some slightly freaky imagery. A little violence too.

I'm done explaining now, make what you will of it. It's for the 100 Themes Challenge over on deviantART.

34) Stars

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Her tears look like crystal, like stars, on black lashes from moon white eyes.

She never cries properly these days though, not any more. When we first brought her in she did, she sobbed constantly, soft and pitiful and pleading, enough to make my stomach twist just slightly. It changed to those faint stars when we grew used to her though, when she became a dull part of the furniture to the others, rather than the rare, exotic toy she was in the beginning. I never thought of her like that though; I knew better.

I knew she was the closest thing to heaven any of us will get with this hopeless war, always running, hiding, fighting, just barely surviving. Every time we take a mission we laugh in the face of the odds, every battle leaves another scar.

She didn't have any scars though, not one on all that bare skin, not a single blemish on all the pinkish white of her skin, when we brought her in. Pampered princess. Still, she bleeds just like the rest of us. Well, not quite the rest of us – she's too perfect for that, even. All the blood so red down her pale skin, and all those perfect teardrops that cling around her eyes, hardly ever falling any more. Opals and rubies and crystal stars. She's definitely closer to heaven than any of us will get, closer to an angel than we are to demons, even.

That's part of what makes it so glorious when she screams.

She still screams now sometimes, raw and broken. It doesn't fit her at all; she's far too soft and smooth, so perfectly formed and fitted that it jars me a little when she lets loose such a sound. There's no pretty words to describe it. Still, it feels good when she screams, or she screams when it feels good; one of the two. Maybe she secretly likes it and she's not a goddess after all, not a perfect angel savior captive doll heaven. Maybe she's just as filthy as the rest of us. I don't think so though, or her lips wouldn't be so pink and damp and her hair so night black and her body so tight around me when she screams.

If she was like us, she would feel like dirt, like the demons she services. Not stars and moons and dark silk. If she was like us she wouldn't _have_ to scream and sob and wail – she could walk around free and give in to the pleasure. Or maybe she wouldn't feel the pleasure if it wasn't forced upon her.

If that's so, the little bitch deserves it.

Whether she deserves it or not, I know I don't. I don't deserve one minute in her presence, yet I have her always, locked up safely to take out and play with at my leisure. Pretty china doll. I almost wish she could shatter, but at the same time the thing I love most about her is the way she gives in eventually, defeated and pliant; the way her flesh parts so wetly for mine even as she blushes and tries to look elsewhere as if it's someone else's body clamping tight on mine.

That's why I got mirrors, so she can't escape to some pure, heavenly fantasy. No, she has to see what she is – my broken, beautiful, _perfect_ princess, all spread out, flushed and splayed for me like a common whore, though we both know she's less of a whore than me. She probably couldn't even imagine acts such as this before we broke her innocence, and put that lithe little body to better use than fighting and spying.

I like to tug on her hair sometimes, when I take her from behind, to make her neck and back arch, and her fingrs grip the floor, or the table if she's lucky. Her nails are still long and clean, because I like it when she digs them in my back, when I pin her against cold glass when she's behaved well, and there's not so much to see in the mirrors ranged around. They're sort of like shell, like opal like her eyes. Maybe I'll pull them out someday and keep them for myself, keep them as company on long missions. I think I'd like that – a little bit of heaven in my pocket.

Not tonight though, tonight I want her nails scraping the ground and her hair spilling like jet on the bare wood, I want her soft buttocks in the air and her face almost in the dirt. Never quite, of course. She needs to see what she's become, after all. She needs to see the creature who stands above her, in her, owning her, angel pet that she is.

I make her spread her legs, make that white skin turn pink as I scrape my own nails – dusty, bloody, short monstrosities – along her thighs. They tremble like a caught butterfly, so hopeless, so powerless. Beautiful. She still wants freedom after all this time, still wants her village, her clan, her team. We took all those from her though, and now the others have moved on, she's all mine, all helpless and longing and mine. She knows I'm all she has left in this world, and even if she escaped, she'd return to me eventually because there's nothing out there for her now.

I tell her so, and she whimpers, and I can see the heat flow to her face and crotch. I tell her that too, and I see it pulse and twitch with something. Longing or fear or love or hate, it doesn't matter which. It's probably true that she wouldn't enjoy this as much if she weren't such an angel, if it weren't such a taboo for her to hear my words. Clever little princess, she knows just how to push my buttons and get what she wants.

I pull on her hair now, make her spine contort under that silky skin as I enter her, feeling her flesh welcome me even as the tears well in her eyes and she begs for me to stop, just like always. She doesn't mean it though, the sneaky bitch, she's just playing along to my feelings, trying to make me treat her as she wants, trying to get the most pleasure for herself and caring none for me.

But she's tight and wet and moving so perfectly around me that I don't bother punishing her for it right now.

I told you she screams, didn't I? Like now, with her throat so raw and ragged, and her fingers in the dirt and her eyes watching me so tenderly, hopelessly. Lovingly, almost. I know this is the closest I'll get to heaven – pounding into whiteness with this little angel carrying me up and up on waves of heat.

.

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_Afterwards, I cuddle her, and stroke the stars from her flinching cheeks. They taste of absolution._

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Feedback would be nice, because I've no idea if I got any of my thoughts across, and I'd love to know what you think of it. Sorry for any disturbance caused._  
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